


Mount Mugamba

by Linnai



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Set fairly early in Rastakhan's reign, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnai/pseuds/Linnai
Summary: Zul and Rastakhan go on a hike.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Awful, terrible,  _ the spirits whisper.  _ Danger, suffering, death,  _ they croon.

 

But they always do. To listen to them naively is to invite the folly that has been the downfall of a hundred dark prophets before him.

 

Zul has gained his high station by  _ accuracy. _

 

He casts the bones. He pores over his old records of prophetic whispers and visions and what actually came to pass.

 

He makes offerings to the lesser spirits, plying them with marrow bones and fresh berries. They give him glimpses. Some as vague as a sensation, others as clear as reality.

 

_ Withered stalks, sallow and crackling. _

 

_ The smell of crisp, clean air. _

 

_ A frost-rimed riverbeast calf, in sleeping repose. Its chest does not rise and fall. _

 

_ Churning, slowing. _

 

_ Snow accruing in the deep grooves of a golden carving. _

 

_ A shiver across the skin. _

 

Concerning.

 

He sketches the locales of his visions, matching them against the great encyclopedias of landmarks in the temple archives. He brings out his personal golden models of Zuldazar’s mountain ranges, triangulating peaks and distances. His acolytes labour with him.

 

Zul is meticulous. He is no village hedge prophet. His forecasts affect the actions of an entire empire.

 

When he calls together the Council meeting two weeks later, he brings a map, carefully scribed with notes. Here, temperatures will fall low enough to be a danger to livestock, he says. There, temperatures will go below freezing.

 

The gears of the empire’s communication backbone grind into motion. Messages are sent via pterrordax across Zuldazar and Nazmir.

 

Farmers harvest early. They grimace over the lost crop, but they have grown to trust the weather reports from the capitol after decades of reliability under the new head prophet.

 

Oils and coal and firewood are stockpiled. The upper class purchase heat wards and dense furs. Shaman commune with fire spirits, rallying them.

 

The streets of Dazar’alor are filled with anxious chatter as the common folk speculate. For some, they have never experienced cold in their lifetime. A pair of Drakkari priests, far from home, carouse in the streets in their excitement.

 

A cold snap is coming to Zandalar.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Rastakhan insists on performing the solstice ceremony anyways.

 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The steep hike from the Atal’Dazar temple complex to the viewpoint high up the slopes of Mount Mugamba is not for the faint of heart. Rastakhan takes to it with the ease of a pre-breakfast morning stroll, while Zul acquires a pinched expression an hour in.

 

“Want to turn back?” Rastakhan asks him jovially. “You look a bit taxed, my friend.”

 

Zul shoots him a baleful look. “I am fine.”

 

Rastakhan laughs and bounds to the side, leaping to the next level of the narrow switchback trail. Zul mutters an oath and hurries to catch up, gravel skittering under his feet.

 

It is a fine day and a relaxing walk, and Rastakhan is in good spirits. Small wildflowers, their curly petals dusky blue, dot the slopes where dirt has collected in the crevices of the bare stone slopes. They lift their leaves to warm sunlight; clear calm skies have relieved the brunt of Mount Mugamba’s typical high-altitude chill. 

 

It’s a far cry from the cold front sweeping through the eastern coast of Zandalar, where life has come to a standstill while trolls huddle around fires, entryways and windows hastily covered with boards or skins to prevent heat from escaping.

 

Despite Zul’s carefully couched suggestions, Rastakhan wears only his typical regalia (which ignorant foreigners might call  _ skimpy _ ). The prophet himself wears both a full robe and a thick fur cloak.

 

Rastakhan looks back to make sure Zul is keeping up. Judging from the sweat running down his flushed face, his friend is now regretting his overcautious choices. The cloak is too bulky to easily carry, especially when he's already toting a satchel of drawing materials.

 

“Zul!” Rastakhan pats his shoulder, across which is already slung a great oilskin bag of offerings. “I can carry your cloak.”

 

“I am fine, my king,” Zul grits out.

 

“A little warmer than anticipated, hmm?”

 

An irritated grunt.

 

“In fact… I could carry, you, too.” Rastakhan mimes a scooping motion. “Would make things a little faster, eh?”

 

It's hard to tell on Zul's already reddened face, but Rastakhan fancies that he sees a blush.

 

“Surely my  _ great  _ and  _ benevolent  _ king would not needlessly torment his lessers.” The admonition is diminished by Zul’s strained panting.

 

“Hah! Who could fault me, you are as slow as a Tortollan!” Rastakhan laughs and turns back around, but graciously slows down just a bit.

 

Zul does not typically accompany his King for ceremonies such as this. In fact, Rastakhan usually makes the trek alone (and much faster). With the otherwise inaccessible path beginning from the heavily guarded Atal’dazar, there’s no need for bodyguards.

 

But this time, Zul had requested to accompany the King. With his usual obligations in Dazar’alor disrupted, this was a chance to acquire visual references from the viewpoint to add to the archives, he’d explained. Rastakhan, well used to Zul’s obsessive habit of recording apparently inane details, had cheerfully agreed.

 

He enjoys Zul’s company, after all.

 

Two hours after their morning departure, the pair ascend the final flight of narrow steps and reach the viewpoint.

 

The level outcrop offers a beautiful vantage down upon Dazar’alor’s golden pyramids, gleaming distantly in the noon sunlight. Thin clouds smear across the edge of the deep blue sky, which melds into the ocean in a distant pale gradient. 

 

The temple itself is of ancient Dazarian construction. Its ornate gold-framed entrance is embedded into the face of the mountain, flanked by intricately worked gold reliefs depicting the rising sun and scenes of Zandalari life. Centered within each is an angular raptor face not unlike the ones on Rastakhan's own armor, snarling mouths gushing fresh snowmelt into tiled channels that funnel it off the edge of the outcrop.

 

Rastakhan slaps Zul on the back. “Well done, my friend! You made it!”

 

Zul wheezes, then staggers towards one of the fountains and proceeds to stick his head under the chilly deluge. Sighing in relief, he fumbles at the clasps of his cloak and lets it fall. His robe is dark with sweat. Droplets of meltwater trace their way down his lithe figure.

 

Rastakhan tears his eyes away. He heads into the temple, offerings in hand.

 

The solstice ceremony is a simple one, and Rastakhan completes the rites quickly. When he emerges from the temple, Zul is standing before one of the golden reliefs, sketchbook in hand. The prophet’s brow is furrowed.

 

“We should be going,” he says. “I have reason to believe the weather will turn sour.” A pale hand gestures to the relief. “That carving of the brutosaur with the rays behind it over the there, see it?” 

 

“Mhm.”

 

Zul angles the sketchbook towards Rastakhan. It’s flipped to page containing a pencil sketch that bears considerable similarity to the carving. “This is from an unplaced vision last week. Those blank areas are snow.”

 

Rastakhan casts a skeptical look at the sunny sky. “There is not a cloud in sight! Surely it will happen some other day.” He pats the diminished but still generously sized oilskin invitingly. “And what about our lunch?”

 

Zul sighs. “We can eat on the way down.”

 

“You cannot call that a meal! We have had  _ so _ little time together, my old friend,” Rastakhan cajoles. “Sometimes I forget we used to cavort about the country together in our youth, hunting devilsaurs and killing heathens, when now I only see your sour face when we rot at council meetings!”

 

“Mmm… if you so desire a meal, my schedule may allow for dinner,” Zul offers hesitantly.

 

No, Rastakhan can’t do that, even if it greatly appeals to him. A private dinner has  _ connotations _ that lunch does not, ones that he doesn’t want to force on his good friend, who has never demonstrated one whit of interest. Rastakhan is keenly aware of how an overture could be mistaken as an order due to his kingship. He has heard the stories of his grandfather’s depredations.

 

Time to try another tack.

 

“Zul, Zul, Zul. There is something I must confess,” he begins gravely. “The solstice ceremony takes a full day, correct? Two hours to ascend, at least three to perform the rites, two to descend. It has been this way for centuries.”

 

“Yes…? Oh, my apologies - I thought you had already completed the ceremony. We can wait-”

 

Rastakhan waves him silent. “I am done.”

 

A moment of confusion. Then realization dawns. Zul’s stern face twitches into a smile, then a grin, and then he is laughing, eyes creased with mirth. “You  _ snake! _ _ This  _ is why you would entertain no suggestion to skip the ceremony! It is your day to slack off!”

 

Zul is laughing so hard he needs to sit down. Rastakhan’s heart is full of joy. Oh, if he could see this every day.

 

“Now do you see? If we return now, Riva’Hakata will know it only takes half a day at most, and my freedom will be gone, replaced by hours of audiences! I will have betrayed a secret entrusted to me by generations of weary rulers!” Rastakhan dramatically puts a hand to his heart and puts on a pathetic expression. “Surely you would not do that to me, my friend?”

 

Zul wipes tears from his eyes. “Of course not.”

 

Rastakhan beams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was obligated to include "lithe" after seeing [this post](https://thischick25.tumblr.com/post/182483459740/splickedylit-splickedylit-lithe-is-one-of).
> 
> As usual, find me at [my tumblr](https://atalzul.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

It is shocking how quickly the weather turns.

 

They are not _careless._ When the dark cloud forms astride the mountain's peak, the pair collect the remains of their picnic and leave.

 

But Rastakhan and Zul are Zuldazar born and bred, children of a tropical lowland. A Drakkari would have seen the signs an hour ago and fled, knowing it may already be too late.

 

They are not even a quarter of the way down to Atal'dazar when the first tiny snowflakes drift from a grey sky, stealing the last kiss of the sun's warmth.

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“Astounding!”

 

Despite the newfound urgency of their descent, Rastakhan has paused in front of him, transfixed.

 

“Real snow,” Rastakhan continues, “this is something I never expected to see with my own eyes!” The flakes melt upon touching his bare skin, so he raises an armored forearm to get a closer look.

 

“Ahh, look at that. How beautiful. My father’s court mage conjured snowfall in my room once when I was but a young scamp, but I see now that it was but a pale imitation.”

 

Zul examines the snowflakes collecting on his cloak with less enthusiasm. He has already seen snow firsthand in his visions of distant locales... sometimes accompanied with images of frozen corpses.

 

But he cannot deny that they are beautiful.

 

Each snowflake unique, each branching filigree just slightly different but wholly new, like the alternate timelines he and his colleagues have speculated about. Like the potential futures he peers into.

 

...perhaps, in one of those timelines, Rastakhan had accepted his dinner invitation, and they would currently be safely ensconced in Atal'dazar, warmed by a blazing brazier as they observed the snow from comfortable safety...

 

Zul clamps down on that wandering thought.

 

“We must be going. I would prefer to avoid being buried in this.”

 

Rastakhan catches one on his tongue before replying.

 

“It will take _many_ more of these to bury _me!_ " he laughs, but begins down the path once more.

 

They lapse into silence, focused on quickly descending the mountain. Their exhalations rise as gouts of mist.

 

Zul shivers. His long hair hasn’t fully dried after his ill-conceived dousing in the fountain, and what was once comfortably cooling is now uncomfortably chilling. A foolish mistake. And speaking of mistakes...

 

 _Was I too subtle?_ he wonders. Zul is decently skilled at reading people. He's had to be, to survive his ascent in the den of snakes that is the nobility.

 

The glances. The invitations to to partake in leisure activities together, offers extended to no other member of the Council. Rastakhan is not disinterested.

 

And yet every careful proposition has been firmly rebuffed.

 

It is easy to fall into the timeworn groove of brooding doubt. _He is a deluded besotten fool, seeing things that aren’t there._

 

Soon, their vision of Dazar’alor below is obscured by the thickening snowfall.

 

“This snow is such a botherment!” Rastakhan complains. He wipes snowmelt from his face and then shakes himself like a dog, snow flying off the feathers on his headdress and pauldrons. “I am truly looking forward to a jug of hot mulled ehu’ye… And a soak in the steam baths!” He sighs wistfully. “You must be pleased with your warm cloak now, Zul!”

 

“Yes… quite.” Zul replies.

 

It is a lie.

 

Zul is very, very cold.

 

He wants to bask in Rastakhan’s roundabout admission of Zul’s correct forecast, and to offer a pointed comment that perhaps Rastakhan should have listened to him about wearing a different outfit, but all he can do is think about how cold he is.

 

His tusks ache and the gold of his headdress is icy where it contacts his bare forehead, but it’s nothing compared to the leaching chill of his hair and sweat-damp robe. The cloak does nothing.

 

He can’t stop shivering. He rubs his hands together fruitlessly. It is a small mercy that Rastakhan walks in front and therefore cannot see his weakness.

 

Snow has begun to collect on the pathway instead of melting, and it is growing treacherous. He looks down at his feet, focusing on putting one foot before the other. They will be back at Atal’Dazar soon, and his quarters are heated and have spare clothes. Warm clothes, dry clothes. He clings to that hope.

 

The spirits are whispering in his ears with urgent tones, but he pays them no heed. They always whisper, do they not?

 

He is so cold.

 

Rastakhan is yammering further, and Zul grunts to show he’s listening. He’s not.

 

One step at a time. He needs to get to Atal’Dazar. Everything will be fine.

 

The snow falls.

 

Zul walks.

 

It’s a relief when he finally stops shivering and starts getting warmer. _Too_ warm, actually. Zul tries to take off his cloak, but his frozen fingers only fumble at the clasp.

 

He trips in his distraction, landing in a cushion of snow. It’s pleasantly cooling.

 

It’s comfortable here. And Zul is very, very tired now.

 

He falls asleep.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------

 

“Zul? Zul, wake up!”

 

Rastakhan pats his friend’s face. No response.

 

Not good.

 

Rastakhan is no doctor, but even he knows that something is direly wrong when an otherwise healthy troll falls unconscious to the ground. He carefully gathers the smaller troll into his arms and stands up.

 

The king has walked this route every year for decades, and is possessed of a good sense of direction. They should be an hour from Atal’Dazar, much less if he takes shortcuts, but the thick snow has obscured his keen vision to a very limited radius. A misjudged leap and fall down a sheer cliffside could kill even a loa-blessed king.

 

Rastakhan dares not chance an hour without knowing the nature of Zul’s ailment. And, if he is being honest with himself now that there is no one nearby to posture for, he is _really quite cold,_ and a long suppressed shiver snakes down his body.

 

Consulting his internal map, he remembers that there is a cave not far from here, one of the many small shrines dotting the holy mountain. He hurries towards it.

 

Zul is gently laid to the floor. Rastakhan offers a short prayer towards the shrine’s minor loa to thank it for the shelter before planting his fire totems around his friend’s still form, careful not to place them close enough to burn. The open mouth of the cave sucks away a great deal of the heat, but Rastakhan’s magic is strong, and the air begins to warm.

 

There are no signs of poison, enchantment, or any other maladies on Zul. But his flesh is so pale that it has a blue tint, and when Rastakhan checks the pulse at his neck, his heartbeat is weak and slow. Could this be caused simply by the snow and cold weather, despite Zul’s thick layer of clothing? It’s a troubling thought. If a troll as cautious as Zul could be struck down so easily, then he fears for the coastal towns currently in the grip of the cold snap.

 

Time passes. Rastakhan feels comfortably warm and dry now, but Zul still does not stir. Rastakhan squeezes his hand. It’s still as cold as ice. The heat of the totems doesn’t seem to be reaching him.

 

Perhaps a closer source will help. Rastakhan seats himself against the wall and pulls Zul’s still form against his chest, repositioning the totems around them.

 

The smaller troll looks half like a mummy about to be interred in King’s Rest, Rastakhan having wrapped his cloak tightly about his body. That, combined with his pale, slack face, makes him look… well, dead. Despite the fact that Rastakhan is well acquainted with death and that this is not the first time he has beheld his friend in a sorry state (mostly during the war, for Zul rarely sees battle now), the sight strikes him with unusual force.

 

Rastakhan celebrated his first century just a few years ago. His line is long lived due to Rezan’s boon; lifespans of five centuries are not unheard of.

 

But the noblechildren who he played with in his youth. His stalwart bodyguards. Zul, only a decade younger.

 

They’re in their midlife, now. Already a new pair of youthful bodyguards is being trained to take Reh’tani and Tevuha’s place. There are fine lines forming at the corners of Zul’s eyes.

 

In another century, a century and a half if he’s lucky, he will have buried all those he grew up with. His mother and father are long dead.

 

Rastakhan fears few things.

 

But this… this, he turns his mind away from.

 

The totems have raised the cave to a balmy temperature. Rastakhan, after some hesitation, slides a hand down Zul’s robe to feel his chest. It is icy cold. Zul’s exposed face is conversely fairly warm. He frowns. Could Zul’s clothing actually be working against him? Preventing the heat from reaching him?

 

Another check reveals that Zul’s pulse is even slower than before.

 

He has heard that in the direst of blizzards, ice trolls huddle together in naked piles to share body heat. An entertaining fact, long forgotten until now.

 

Rezan have mercy. And to think he had balked at the intimacy of a dinner together! The mere thought has his face hot with mortification. But some instinct tells him that Zul is not going to last much longer if he isn’t warmed up immediately.

 

“Sorry,” Rastakhan mutters wretchedly. He lays the cloak aside and pulls at the prophet’s robe. It’s a struggle to pull it off Zul’s unconscious, uncooperative body without tearing it, the cloth bunching up under his arms. The whole process feels incredibly unsavory.

 

Rastakhan is already wearing little but he strips himself to his loincloth as well, exposing as much skin as he can. There is no room for second thoughts. He lays himself on the cave floor and draws Zul close once more, back against Rastakhan’s chest.

 

The sheer _cold_ is like a punch to the gut, and Rastakhan nearly yelps in surprise. It is like hugging an ice sculpture (Which Rastakhan _has_ done; royal feast decorations can get quite extravagant) and all his heat is instantly sapped out, leaving him shivering once more. He grits his teeth and endures, pulling Zul’s cloak over them both.

 

It pays off quickly. Zul starts shivering again, first trembling and then teeth chattering, convulsive shaking.

 

“Zul? How are you feeling?”

 

No response.

 

Rastakhan hugs him tighter. He hums a wordless tune, a lullaby his nursemaid had sang for him a long, long time ago.

 

Zul will be mortified at the situation once he awakens. But surely he will understand the necessity of what Rastakhan has done, and that it doesn’t _mean_ anything… right?

 

Rastakhan guiltily finds himself hoping that Zul won’t wake up immediately once he’s all warmed up. It’ll allow him time to make an escape and pretend like nothing untowards happened...

 

“C-c-cold,” Zul croaks.

 

“Zul!” Rastakhan cries, face splitting into a grin even as his heart begins to pound in terror unbefitting of a king. “You made me worry. How do you feel?” he asks, while beginning to extricate himself. “I am truly sorry, I had to-”

 

“ _C-cold!_ ” Zul retorts. He pulls at a retreating hand. “S-stay,” he demands. Rastakhan freezes.

 

“Lie d-down.”

 

Heart in his throat, Rastakhan complies. Zul crawls weakly atop to press his still icy chest to Rastakhan’s, draping his head over Rastakhan’s shoulder. It reminds Rastakhan absurdly of flipping a pancake to cook the other side.

 

Zul makes a satisfied noise and starts purring.

 

_Oh._

 

Rastakhan’s face is very warm.

 

Zul is... not in his right mind. Evidently still very unwell. He would never-

 

Zul nuzzles his cheek against Rastakhan’s neck. It is a deliberate, unmistakable motion.

 

Rezan save him. Even a _blackout drunk_ troll wouldn’t do that by accident.

 

Against their best judgement, perhaps.

 

But not by accident.

 

Perhaps there is some requited interest after all.

 

Well.

 

“I should have accepted your suggestion to have dinner instead, Zul.” Rastakhan says contritely. “No silly tradition of evading my duties was worth your safety.” It is both an apology and an offering.

 

“Mmm… what t-time is it?” Zul asks sleepily.

 

“Some two hours after we left the viewpoint,” Rastakhan estimates. Mid-afternoon.

 

“Well then, my king… I believe there is still time today to rectify your mistake.” Zul murmurs into Rastakhan’s neck.

 

Warmed now in both body and spirit, Rastakhan begins to purr as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the sappiest thing I've ever written. Idiots in love, indeed!
> 
> As usual, find me at [my tumblr](https://atalzul.tumblr.com/).


End file.
